


House on Fire

by Aphidity



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Courtesan AU, Humor, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-05 05:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aphidity/pseuds/Aphidity
Summary: Rodimus is one of Cybertron's foremost courtesans. He has endless luxuries, the adoring attentions of Cybertron's elite, and a pending criminal conviction.Time to panic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SirenSong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirenSong/gifts).



> A silly fic inspired by [this post](https://starschemer.tumblr.com/post/171479515092/lemme-just-tell-you-that-horny-conflicted-tyrest). (warning: nsfw)

Megatron was not an old mech, no matter what some of his colleagues or subordinates might insinuate. Nevertheless, he understood where they might have picked up the impression. His…eventful rise to power had provided him with an extent of personal experience quite lacking in a more sheltered mech of the same age. He’d had more than his share of such hard-knock lessons.

For example: the entrance of Starscream never meant anything good. Megatron had six millennia of personal experience to back it up.

So it was only natural for him to bark “Get out.” when those accursed wings shadowed the threshold of his office.

Most mechs would scramble to get out, just as he had ordered. Unfortunately, his bluff failed. One reason might be the crown glinting off the top of the jet’s helm.

“You.” A digit was empathetically jabbed at his face. “You’re hired.”

“What?”

Starscream hissed the syllables out through his fangs. “You’re _hired_.”

Megatron glared down the digit with as much disdain as he could spare. (He refused to give Starscream the satisfaction of an incredulously-lifted orbital ridge.) “You have no authority to hire me.”

“I outrank you in the Senate’s court!”

Megatron’s pistons gave a dismissive, derogatory chuff. “Senate titles mean nothing. Your rank is nominal.” To grind his point in further, he didn’t bother to take his optics off the datapads on his desk. Revisions to Article 41.25.20 of the Tetrahex Convention obviously took precedence over Starscream’s ravings. He continued editing margin notes to the sounds of angry jet engine splutters. It would never do to give the jet a single scrap of attention, especially if he wanted to extricate himself from this situation unscathed.

Something was obviously _up_ , as Optimus’ yellow aide would chirp. Even then, it was better to leave that pin unpulled. Megatron didn’t survive this long by kicking over any obvious mine in sight. When dealing with Starscream, it was much better to cut him off before any of his schemes latched onto you and tangled you up.

Despite the snub and cold shoulder, Starscream was unlikely to give up and leave. Megatron was not terribly concerned. Six millennia of dealing with the Seeker made him reasonably confident in navigating such outbursts. This was merely a war of attrition, and Megatron had plenty of patience to spare.

Out of the corner of his optics, he could see red wings flare. That was all the warning he got before two dark servoes slammed onto his desk as Starscream leaned in.

“You’re blocking the light, Speaker,” Megatron remarked mildly as he circled a few key points on his datapad.

“Primus damn your light, Megatron. This is _serious_.” When all the response he got was a terse grunt, Starscream cocked his head to the side. His scowl melted into an artificially saccharine smirk, although his wings remained flared and looming.

Red flag. Red flag.

“Or I suppose that you don’t care about Rodimus at all?”

That got Megatron’s attention. Frag the Tetrahex Convention.

“What,” he snarled, “exactly do you _think_ you’re going to do to Rodimus?”

Starscream snarled right back at him. “ _I_ was going to hire him a legal defence team but _somebot_ wouldn’t take his helm out of his exhaust-”

What?

“A legal defence team? What is going on?”

Starscream straightened up and cycled a deep vent, never breaking his glare. For a moment, he looked torn between twisting the knife or cutting to the chase. To Megatron’s unspoken relief, he decided cutting to the chase was the better option.

“Rodimus has been accused of a number of offences. All false, of course. I’d be impressed if he really were guilty on all counts, but this is our beloved Chief Justice Tyrest pressing charges. The Enforcers have just transferred him to the Rodion Court, where he will be held until the day of his trial.”

“ _Arrested?_ ”

“Yes, yes. He has been arrested.” Talons snapped in front of his nasal ridge. “Do try to keep up.”

Megatron realised that his jaw had been handing open so far. He shut it as survival instinct tried to poke holes in Starscream’s story. “Such an event would be splashed all across Cybertron’s media. There has been noth-.”

“Because I have a better intelligence network than you do, Magister. Probably actual intelligence, as well.” Ignoring the dark glare, Starscream continued, “Unfortunately, Tyrest had the irritating foresight of shutting down all commlines and restricting visitors. While this _is_ technically standard protocol, he’s taken care to keep out even Senate members. _I_ can’t contact Rodimus. And believe me,” the Speaker paused to adjust his crown, “I’ve tried. All routes I could find were denied.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” And now it was Megatron’s turn to receive a glare.

“Are you being deliberately obtuse? Tyrest holds Rodimus now. Even better, he’s got the moral high ground by his position as Chief Justice. Any attempt at circumventing _his rules_ ,”(the venom in that phrase surprised even Megatron), “will be construed as disregard for Cybertron’s justice system as a whole. I get pinned for corruption, and Rodimus gets one more black mark. Do you seriously think I would jeopardise the situation like that?”

The City Speaker took a moment to cycle another vent. “Which is why I say, you’re hired.” A challenging flick of wings cut off anything Megatron might have said. “You’ve stepped down from your position by the Prime’s side, but you’re still a Magister. And you’re still the Megatron who gave speeches that led mechs through fire and steel. A speech to clear Rodimus’ name wouldn’t be too difficult in your dotage, I hope?”

“Impressive.” Megatron had to bite back a laugh. “Your concern for Rodimus is…palpable.”

Instead of defensiveness or evasion, Starscream’s optics softened momentarily. “He has a way of getting under your plating.” Then all softness fled as sharp red optics pinned onto Megatron.

He would remember that.

“He does.” Megatron set aside his datapads and pulled out a fresh one. “So if you can’t take Tyrest head-on, and you can’t sneak around him, what other scheme have you come up with?”

Starscream’s smile was filled with fangs instead of mirth. “So we’ll play by _his_ rules instead.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl takes a bet.

Very few mechs could stand to work with Prowl. (He himself was aware of that, not that he cared. )

Correction: most mechs could work with Prowl, but only in the short-run. Long term partnership lasted as long as the other party’s patience. Clients did approach him, but with some caution and skittishness. A previous associate, for lack of a better term, had described him as intense in small doses and utterly overbearing beyond that. While not a glowing character review, Prowl was not so blind as to deny the accuracy of the observation.

That did not mean that Prowl was a solo operative, oh no. Few mechs could work _with_ him, yes, but many mechs were working _under_ him. It was so much easier to control and function when he was his own mech, a safe distance away from expectations and assumptions of colleagues and superiors. He very much preferred to be the commander instead of the commanded.

At any rate, that left those who could get on an equal footing with him few and far between. These mechs were easier to remember then, given their scanty number.

One of them would be Ultra Magnus, Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. There was a mech who had shared Prowl’s goals and views to an uncanny degree. Prowl’s memory files of working with him were coloured with a rare respect.

Even so, Prowl wondered what could possibly be the reason that Magnus’ seal would be on a message brought to him by his current client. A letter of recommendation from the Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord was a great honour for a young lawyer, a consultation from a celebrity brandishing said letter was vaguely discomfiting.

“You came highly recommended.” Thunderclash had explained. “Magnus,” (the dropping of the honorific suggested a degree of intimacy, Prowl noted.) “Magnus wrote this letter, saying you were the best mech for the job.”

Prowl was too busy scrutinising the letter presented to him. The seal was of Ultra Magnus’, and seemed authentic. And yet, the contents were…unexpected, to say the least.

Legal defence for Rodimus was not something Prowl ever thought he’d be. His stylus tapped the edge of the datapad as he scanned over it. In the strained silence, the idle tapping swelled and filled the room as steadily as a sparkbeat.

He decided to dig a little further into this potential case. It never hurt to find out the motivation of his client. “The defendant’s designation is recorded as Rodimus. As in Rodimus of Nyon, previously Hot Rod of Nyon. Rodimus the courtesan.” Even speaking the designation felt vaguely scandalous. Finally, he raised his optics off the datapad to judge his visitor’s reaction.

What a sight, seeing the great Thunderclash squirm. “Yes.”

As meticulous as he was, Prowl did not particularly feel the need to fish for the _exact_ details on how both Thunderclash and Ultra Magnus were involved in this. Best to spare everyone involved embarrassing exposes. As the formal introduction bean making way to the accusations and charges, he could begin to infer the reason behind Tyrest’s enthusiastic persecution. Some charges seemed anatomically improbable.

“Seeing as who the prosecutor is, Ultra Magnus did not feel that he could approach you directly. There would be a…conflict of interest.” The delicacy Thunderclash employed in picking words amused Prowl.

Translated: Tyrest would not be pleased to find his Enforcer surreptitiously undermining him in defence of a courtesan. Intriguingly, Magnus was still willing to risk scandal and his superior’s wrath by directing another to his cause. This was a good case, Prowl could practically smell it. Here was a chance to shake things up, sweep pieces off the board and replace them with others. Even if he failed, his assumedly impartial role would shield him from most of the fallout.

Ah, the scandalous circus of Cybertronian politics. Smokescreen would have a field-day if he heard about this. Then again, it meant that Prowl would have to clarify matters before agreeing to wade in. The last thing he needed was for the murky undertow of hidden circumstances to drag him under.

“And you agreed to be his representative?”

“No,” The single glyph was underscored empathetically. Thunderclash seemed to belatedly realise how he had half-lunged out of his seat and took a moment to re-settled himself. His servos were tightly clasped in his lap: a sign of his imposed control. “I merely happen to share the same sentiments as Ultra Magnus. I am hiring you as my own agent, and I will bear full responsibility for that. Ultra Magnus is, and remains, a neutral observer to these proceedings.”

“It says here,” another tap of the stylus, another highlight, “that the Chief Justice is invoking clause 60.60 under Cybertron’s heresy laws. If successful, it permits execution of the convicted mech on the grounds of treason and defilement of holy places. I must admit that I am not familiar with such proceedings. While I have studied records of similar cases, all took place generations ago. There has never been such a trial in living memory. The clause has remained uninvoked until now.”

Thunderclash’s thin veneer of composure vanished instantly as his optics flared with anxiety. “Surely there is something to be done?”

“Surely.”

Prowl’s insouciant flick of his doorwings picked up on a thin thread of impatience in Thunderclash’s EMF. Thunderclash was still far too polite to do anything more than fidget and insist, “Then will you take the case?”

Instead of replying him, Prowl tapped on the datapad to highlight a certain designation. “Chief Justice Tyrest is the prosecutor in the upcoming trial. Who is to be the judge?”

Thunderclash’s field shimmered with uncertainty. “He was the one who brought the charges to the High Court. As prosecutor, he will cede his usual seat as Justice to one of his colleagues.”

“I foresee a difficult case. Very few mechs have opposed the Chief Justice and escaped unscathed.” Prowl’s doorwings canted as his field rippled sardonically. “Unless an impartial judge is overseeing this. Unlikely, but not entirely impossible.”

Thunderclash frowned. “You are said to be the best.”

A side of Prowl’s dermas quirked up. “I am. And I’ll prove it to you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarn gets a visit.

Tarn took great pride in his office. It was a sign of how high he had risen, tangible evidence that he was worth _something_. Outlier outcasts didn’t get an officespace in a skyscraper in the central business district. Outlier outcasts didn’t get to head their own law firm. Outlier outcasts-

He wasn’t an outlier outcast. Not anymore.

When Senator Shockwave sent a comm asking if Tarn was free “for a quick chat”, Tarn couldn’t suppress the flare of delight in his spark. Let his mentor see how well he had done for himself! A far cry from the bumbling glitch that had been, well, Glitch.

(He tries not to think too hard about those times. And his designation had been Damus, frag it.)

So, obsessing himself over the appearance of his office had been a logical extension of the whole mess. There were worse things to obsess over. For example, cleaning up the mess of his less-than-legal dealings. Unfortunate necessities of life, but he couldn’t trust Shockwave to be understanding of that. Besides, those brutes might mar the newly-laid décor of his office façade, and what sort of impression would that leave on his once-guardian?

All his anxious arrangements had paid off when Shockwave finally swept in three groons later than the appointed time, a whirlwind of congeniality. “ _Tarn!_ Tarn, what a terrifying mask. And what an _impressive_ place. To think that you call this an office? Is that chandelier actual Praxian amethyst? Outrageous. Undeniably, delightfully outrageous.” He patted Tarn on the arm. “I’m so happy to see you today. Even more so when you’ve done so well for yourself.”

The glowing beam on Shockwave’s face and field held all the warmth of a sun.

Tarn let the silent moment that passed be interpreted as basking in praise rather than struggling to keep his voxcoder from wibbling. “Thank you, Shockwave.”

“ _Dar-_ ling, you rushed ahead and left me behind!” A racer glided in, trailing a steelsilk scarf and the dark scent of fresh polish. “I’m terribly offended.” From the dazzling smile he pinned Shockwave with, Tarn couldn’t actually tell if he held true offense or not.

Senator Shockwave immediately brightened. “Forgive me, brightspark. I got too excited to see Tarn again.” He wrapped an arm around the newcomer and chucked the racer’s chin. “You know how fond I am of my students.”

Tarn awkwardly rebooted his vocaliser. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

At Tarn’s voice, the racer twisted out of Shockwave’s arms and resettled himself, resting his chin and servos on Shockwave’s shoulder instead, looking for all the world like a cybercat perching on some high roost. “Neither have I!” Golden optics scanned up and down Tarn. “Shockwave, do introduce this…exceptional mech to me.”

“Oh, gladly. Mirage, dearest, this is Tarn. He’s a very intelligent bot. And Tarn, this is Mirage. He is one of my closest companions.”

Tarn blinked. The location of Shockwave’s servos on the racer’s frame didn’t seem to indicate companionship _per se_.

Mirage purred. “So pleased to meet you. Shockwave hasn’t _shut up_ about you since - oh I don’t know - last cycle? When the news of-”

“Ah, ah, ah. We’ll come to that later.” Shockwave cut off Mirage’s sentence with a gentle tap on his nasal plate. “All in good time. Meanwhile, back to you, Tarn. I trust that you can spare a few moments for us?” Mirage’s faceplates scrunched up like he’d smelt something odious, although it could have been the tap on his nasal plate. That must have tickled.

‘Us’. Tarn wasn’t sure what that entailed, and from the over-familiarity between the two, he didn’t want to find out. “Surely. Take a seat. Please do continue,” he managed to blurt out.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt our reunion with business-talk. But this matter is pressing, and you’re the best bot I know that can solve this issue.” Shockwave pressed Tarn’s servo apologetically. “I do hope you’ll oblige.”

“Anything for my mentor, Shockwave.” What a thrill, addressing a Senator as a near-equal.

“Like I said, it’s a tricky issue. Surely you’ve heard of Rodimus?”

“Y-yes.” Tarn hid his gasp of surprise in a small cough. Coughing was much more polite than gawping at his ex-mentor. “I believe I have heard of him.”

“Rodimus happens to be another of my intimate companions- Oh, don’t look at me like that. Mirage has been perfectly understanding.”

“I didn’t mean to cause offence,” Tarn managed to hide behind a mask of formality. “Please do continue.”

“Where was I? Ah, yes. Rodimus happens to be facing some criminal charges, and as a concerned associate-” Tarn gave himself a mental pat for keeping his dignity this time. “- I took it upon myself to look for potential sources of assistance. Therefore, I’ve come to ask for a favour.”

Tarn’s optics lit up. Ah, how sweet those words sounded.

“I’d be happy to help.” That was hardly a lie. How could he deny a Senator, coming to ask him for a favour? It was intoxicating.

Shockwave clapped his servos together. “Capital! I’ll see if I can arrange a visit to Rodimus. It’ll be easier if you can interview him personally.”

“That would be appreciated.” After all those euphemisms, a ‘personal visit’ to Cybertron’s most famous courtesan was the only professional obligation. Such was Tarn’s life. “Do you happen to know who raised those charges?”

“The Chief Justice himself.” Mirage’s smirk was dark and sharp as an obsidian blade. “I suppose Tyrest doesn’t take kindly to rejection.”

Shockwave snorted a most un-Senatorly laugh. “Impolite and impolitic, but not inaccurate.”

The mention of the Chief Justice brought Tarn’s fantasy to a grinding halt. As far as Tarn had climbed in life, he could in no way compare to the Chief Justice. “Chief Justice Tyrest is pressing charges? I-I appreciate the high opinion you have of my abilities, Shockwave, but I am afraid I do not share your confidence.” Whatever he was about to say withered away when he caught sight of Shockwave’s growing frown. Shockwave had never frowned at him before. It hit like a punch in the fuel tank.

“Look, Tarn. Listen to yourself. Didn’t I always tell you to have faith in your own abilities? What makes you think that you’re not good enough to face off with Tyrest?”

“Tyrest is far mor-”

“No, he’s not. He’s not invincible. Besides, think of it. You opposing the Chief Justice. You’ll be a revolutionary. You’ll be a thorn in their side.” The wickedness of the Senator’s grin sent a pang of nostalgia through Tarn. That was the spark of defiance that led Shockwave to gather Outliers under his wing. That was the spark that he had used to ignite the very same determination in all his students, to struggle against the system and come out on top.

Had not Tarn succeeded at that as well? He had struggled, and fought, and pulled the furthest ahead. Now here was his chance to throw a stone at the face of those in the seat of power.

This case would be the seal of his success, he’d make sure of it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodimus makes his case, sort of.

Rodimus really didn’t like hats.

His hatred for them bordered on irrationality. It was a well-known rule that Rodimus forbade any patron from donning hats in his field of vision. Tarn had tried broaching the subject before, but no matter how obliquely he approached it, Rodimus would immediately clam up and his field heated with anger. Being the smart mech that he was, Tarn had given up pressing his question. His curiosity over an idiosyncrasy was not worth losing the favour of such a charming mech.

It hadn’t mattered at that time, but it did matter now. Sort of. The hat concentration in a court room was probably greater than what Rodimus was accustomed to on an average day. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped, seeing as formal attire for High Court of Cybertron included ceremonial crowns. Which, according to Rodimus, was worse than a hat because “it’s pomposity on top of the pomposity already inherent in a hat – so like pomposity squared”.

“But sparklight,” Thunderclash had soothed as he escorted Rodimus in, “the hats don’t matter right now. I know you hate those things, but the mechs wearing them have the power to decide whether you live or die.”

Tarn had to turn away before anyone looked at him. Even his mask could not conceal his disgust at that simpering appeal, or that silly excuse of a bot. Greatest Autobot of all time? Greatest clown of all time would be a better epithet. As if a graceful and accomplished mech like Rodimus would deign to remain in that buffoon’s company.

One thing the multi-coloured fool was right about though: this was serious business, no matter how Rodimus tried to lighten the mood with laughter and quips. His very life was at stake in this trial, and the charges pressed were serious ones. Chief Justice Tyrest was a respected religious figure with considerable political power, and a bone to pick with Rodimus. Which was exactly how Tarn had been catapulted into the lofty orbit of the most glamourous courtesan on Cybertron – as part of his legal defense. Not very sexy, but an unexpected perk was the team he would be working with.

Once Shockwave had informed him about his colleague in the case, all of Tarn’s misgivings instantly evaporated. Megatron! _The_ Megatron! The legendary miner from Kaon who defied the Functionists, clawed an education for himself, cast off the shackles of oppression and rose to power alongside Optimus Prime was going to be _his colleague oh Primus_ he could combust! This was the peak of his legal career, nothing else mattered anymore.

Oh, and the other one was some mech named Prowl.

Who turned out to be the grumpiest Praxian above, on, or below the planet, and also the only one keeping his optics glued on his datapad. Tarn didn’t get that mech, really. He himself appreciated the finer things in life, including the gorgeous speedster perched on the plush sofa in front of him.

Rodimus had greeted all of them with a polite dip of the helm when he entered for the meeting. (Did he flash Megatron a smile? It was far too fast for Tarn to catch.) He shed his fool of an escort as gracefully as a shawl on a too-warm day, then settled onto the available couch as if it were a throne and he was holding court. The courtesan was just as beautiful as the stories went, although the frown fixed on his face was probably out of the ordinary. Ah, well. That just made his smiles all the brighter.

 It was obvious that Rodimus had had his frame buffed recently, although not to the usual flashy degree. The more conservative waxing brought a warm glow to his colours instead of an enticing reflective surface. The curve of his smile (or frowns) were accentuated by crimson paint. The glimmer of his blue optics was reflected off a simple swathe of woven gold draped over his spoiler and fastened to jewelled armbands. Tarn found it increasingly difficult to keep his focus off the client and on the case files. How did Prowl do it?

“Remind me how you managed to make such a formidable enemy again?”

Rodimus sighed exaggeratedly. “It was his hat.”

One side of the red chevron was lifted by an incredulous optic ridge. “Really?”

A golden servo waved dismissively. “Okay, no. It was his personality. He just had his hat inflated to the size of his ego. Also, he called me a ‘filthy whore destined to burn in the lowest Pit’.”

Megatron frowned darkly as his engine rumbled. Something uncouth was muttered. Prowl, on the other hand, continued typing busily away on a datapad. Tarn just nodded, encouraging Rodimus to continue.

“Did he give you any problems beyond that?” Megatron was leaning in a shade too close to pass as professional, but Rodimus didn’t seem to mind. “Any harassment, be it verbal or physical?”

“He’s not the sort of mech who takes no for an answer, if you know what I mean,” Rodimus’ dermas pursed, and his field prickled with frustration and worry. “It wasn’t so bad at first. Just comms and visits from lackeys, that sort of thing. Easily blocked with interference chips and security. But then he confronted me one day, and I was in a _really_ bad mood by then-”

Rodimus sighed but sat up straighter. “I don’t know if I should tell you this. I’m not very proud of what I did.” His spoiler fluttered anxiously.

“None of us would blame you,” Megatron soothed. “We’d appreciate it if you shared what happened.”

“Aaand then I flashed him. Out of spite. Petty, I know, but fragging Pit was it good to see that look on his face.”

Tarn froze mid-nod.

Prowl’s voxcoder spat static before any intelligible sound followed. “I- I beg your pardon.” It came out as a statement instead of a question. Megatron’s vents made a thin, choking wheeze. Tarn’s miracle voxcoder had already given up the ghost and he was left staring open-mouthed at the red speedster.

Rodimus shrugged. “Wasn’t a big deal, just, y’know, snapped my chestplates open and back again. Maybe, six kliks of spark exposure?” He sighed the most put-upon sigh Tarn had ever heard. “I dunno why he’s so worked up over it. Wasn’t like I shoved it in his face anyway.”

Those words weren’t helping Tarn dispel the fantasy his filthy processor had already built up, of the sleek, sensual speedster lounging back with that glorious spark shamelessly bared to whoever he chose as those full lips curved into a wicked, inviting smile-

Rodimus stared bemusedly at his legal team as three sets of cooling fans clicked into overdrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are lovely :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift is a good friend.

Unsurprisingly, Drift was lurking by the door all ready to pounce on Rodimus the moment he stepped in. Typical worrywart. “So how’d your legal consult go?”

Rodimus groaned and unclipped his scarf, tossing it aside to land in a crumpled heap. His spoiler swept up and down in what Drift recognised as stretching the kinks out of the connective cabling. The meeting must have been exhausting, from how flat Rodimus’ field was. That left only his face for Drift to read.

“It went fine, I guess. We went over the details of the case, and what exactly that mountain of legal jargon meant.” He flopped onto the couch and ran a servo down his face. “ _Primus,_ I’m drained. Pass the remote, I wanna see what’s playing now.”

“So…what _does_ it all mean?” Drift had tried peeking through the letter served up at the door the day Enforcers and that pompous aft Star Saber swarmed over, but all he could take away from it was the ache of an overclocked processor. Hey, Drift was no scholar either.

He hopped onto the couch next to Rodimus, careful to mind the pointy bits of their kibble. It was frame-memory to weave his arm under a spoiler flap to the connecting hub on the back, to press digit pads along the strained seams in soothing circles. That position left Rodimus half-sprawled in his lap, with the other arm free to toss Rodimus the remote as requested.

“Well, on the bright side, it’s possible to clear all charges and get away scott-free. This hot rear-fender gets to live another day.” Rodimus stretched his arms above his helm in an approximation of a seductive wriggle, but the effect was ruined when he broke into a yawn. Ploughing through all those legal intricacies probably left him as drained as a spent battery. “Worst case scenario, locked up.”

“In a prison?” Drift could handle prisons, he’d been in and out of some before. But Rodimus? Drift’s spark squeezed at the thought of his Amica being sent to a prison. A thin processing thread at the back of his mind wondered if it was possible to sneak into the same facility if Rodimus really was imprisoned. Could he still call in favours with his less savoury contacts? Commit a crime?

“No.” Rodimus was studying his pedes intently, but Drift could see his lips pursed in a twist of worry. “Spark confinement.”

At the first rush of Drift’s horror-filled EMF, Rodimus cut him off immediately. “I don’t want to talk about that, okay? It’s…not something I want to think about. Not now.”

It took five ventilation cycles for Drift to tame his surge of horror and dismay into a small, squirming ball and swallow it back into his spark. It was terrible, that was true, but it was Rodimus’ right to avoid talking about it right now. Already, Rodimus’ field was cycling in unsteady flares. If pushed any further, there was a good chance that he would cry.

Backing off wouldn’t be enough, Drift knew. Not with the old wounds in Rodimus’ spark. “It’s okay that you don’t want to talk about it now. I understand. It doesn’t make you an irresponsible bot for that.”

He’d wanted to comfort Rodimus, but the ache for his Amica in Drift’s spark made his comfort clumsy with emotion. All he got was a muffled grunt in response, and he wasn’t sure if that was good enough.

Drift groped about for some other topic before they lapsed a charged and awkward silence.

“You told them about Tyrest?”

Fragments of sound blurted meaninglessly as Rodimus channel-hopped. “About the spark-flashing thing? Yeah.”

“No, Primus, I- _Roddy, you told them that?_ ” Drift was choking too hard to make a coherent sentence. He loved his Amica, but sometimes… “I meant about Tyrest being an aft, not the flashing, by the Unmaker-”

“What? They’re my lawyers, they have to know about that too!”

“Roddy-” Drift’s vents were hiccupping with laughter. “You’re such a doofus, Rod. I can’t believe it.”

“Shut _up_ , Drift.” Rodimus punctuated that with a fling of the remote at the chortling swordsmech, but his field was melting rapidly from embarrassment to shared amusement.

Drift easily snagged the remote out of the air and tossed it back at Rodimus. “ _You_ sent your entire legal team into a trance, _you_ shut up.”

His Amica sulked exaggeratedly. “I hate you.”

The veneer of laughter slipped off, leaving the cold fear behind again. “Hey.”

Rodimus’ field unfurled in warm, relaxed strokes against his sensors. “Hey yourself,” he murmured against Drift’s finial.

“Are you worried? About the whole thing, I mean.” Drift quickly tacked on in case that upset Rodimus all over again.

“’Course I am.” Rodimus' vents gently tickled Drift's chassis in puffs of warm air, steady and even, with none of the previous distress. “But look at it this way, I’m not going down without a fight. And I’ve got a pretty kickass legal defence.”

“You said they zoned out on you.”

Rodimus laughed as he inched his way across the couch and onto Drift’s lap. “I still trust them.” He butted his helm against Drift’s abdominal plating, engine purring away. “‘Sides, I got you.”

“Yeah,” Drift laced his digits with his Amica’s, black and gold twined together perfectly, resting on the gentle curve of Rodimus’ belly. “You’ve got me.” The answering rumble of Rodimus’ engine was all he needed, and he couldn’t help but cradle his Amica protectively against his frame. They soaked in the serene silence as their fields mingled and melded, and the warm blue of Rodimus’ optics was all the light in Drift’s spark.

Tyrest seemed so far away, in that moment.

That moment was not to last. Rodimus suddenly extricated his servo and wriggled around until his face was inches away from Drift’s.

“Hey. Drift.” That grin on Rodimus’ face did not bode well.

“Hmm?”

Blue optics were dancing in amusement. His spoiler was doing the flicky-flick-flick whenever he got excited. Or had a bad idea that required Drift’s participation, somehow. “Wanna hear a joke I thought of?”

“What is it?” Drift loved his Amica, he really did, but he couldn’t help narrowing his optics in wary suspicion.

Rodimus was already sporfling so hard that he could barely get his words out. Drift could hardly hear his words over the clattering of his plating. “Why does Tyrest have so many holes drilled in his frame?”

Drift’s finials slicked back in dread. “Why?”

“Because,” Rodimus gasped, “Because he wants to be more hole-y.” His voice petered off into a thin wheeze as he flopped into his Amica’s lap, made strutless from laughter.

“ _Rodimus_.” Drift’s groan was drowned out by Rodimus’ cackling. “Your friendship licence is _so_ revoked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I'm proud of that pun. So proud that I wrote a whole fic just to use it.


End file.
